Dean and the Great Joint
by wandertogondor
Summary: "The rules are simple, Sam. You don't take a joint from a guy named Don, and there's no dogs in the car." This is how that rule came to be. Drugged up Dean. Complete.


Dean walked down the streets of Chicago, inhaling the heavily polluted air which was dense and smelt of gasoline. His hands were buried warmly in his leather jacket; the collar popped up to shield him from the harsh, cold wind. John had dragged his oldest son to this rough city, claiming that he had a lead on what he called a Drude-a form of witch associated with plaguing its victims with suicidal dreams.

It was a weak hunch, Dean figured, still walking grimly down the street which was lit brightly by the afternoon sun. A lot of things that John did had no exact meaning nowadays. Nothing was firm to the foundations as it used to be with the tough ex-Marine.

Nothing had had a meaning since Sam left.

Still travelling at a constant pace down the city, the taxi cabs honking endlessly on the open road beside him, Dean spied a young man taking a drag off a smoke while standing comically beside an olive green, retro couch.

"Hey, dude," The man threw his cigarette to the ground as Dean approached him. "you wanna have this couch? My roommate died the other day 'nd I'm trying to get rid of his stuff."

"Sorry for your loss," Dean said plainly, hiding the bitter sarcasm beneath his sympathetically drawn face while placing his ashy hand on the coarse material that made up the 1960s furniture.

"Yeah," sighed the lean man, who was no more than two or three years older than Dean himself. "He was a good guy. He always said, 'Don, you've got your whole life ahead of you, so go screw a chick!'" The man laughed. It wasn't a bitter laugh…it was more of a cry of happiness from a truly happy man.

"I'm Dean," The robust hunter held out his hand, his fingertips red in the cold. Don smiled and accepted the handshake.

"Don McKasmic. Hey, you wanna come up for a beer or something? Dude," He leaned in closer to Dean, whispering in a secretive tone. "I've got the best dope in the city. We could light 'em up and let the good times roll!"

"Can't say that I'd pass up an offer." Dean answered, following the disheveled man for a cold drink in a cold city with a lighter.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

The room was filled with smoke and Dean slowly took a deep drag off the stick of rolled up illegal substances handed to him by Don. Dean leaned back on the couch, grinning away into the ceiling above, tuning his ears to Cypress Hill's 'Hits from the Bong'. Having been extremely baked himself, Don sat at the table ranting about flying wombats and dancing polar bears but Dean wasn't listening. Dean was thinking about more important things. Dean was thinking about how he was going to go down to some taco shop and pillage and plunder them crunchy bastards.

"Dude, where's your bathroom?" Dean asked, grinning while stumbling through the small apartment glancing down at the nearly empty bowl on the coffee table.

"It's down the hall and up your ass," Don mumbled, continuing to talk to his stuffed basset hound about flying wombats and polar bears.

"Thanks man!" Dean walked down the hall way, stopping to tap on a door and peek into the empty room.

In the center of a room a beautiful purple pony hung from the rafters…the stripes of paper glowing in an ecstatic state ignoring the sight of Dean's glazed over eyes widening in excitement.

"Don! I didn't know you had a piñata. You sir!" Dean cried, suddenly pointing to a fly that buzzed near the window sill. "We want the finest wines available to humanity, we want them here, and we want them now!"

"Duuuude!" Don ran into the room with a carton of raw eggs. "I friggen dare you." Dean scoffed, pushed past the purple piñata and opened the window and leaned out into the cold air. "I friggen dare you!" Don repeated, shoving the carton into Dean's arms.

Slowly, one by one, the eggs descended from Dean's hands and down at the street walkers going by. Every time a chick went by, Dean was extremely careful to make sure that he got the top of her head. There were infuriated shouts below and Don and Dean ducked into the room, curling on the ground laughing like eight year old girls. Pulling out his phone, Dean Winchester typed in a few familiar numbers, hoping to get Bobby on the line.

"Hey, Bob-bay!"

"Huh?"

"What?" Dean scrunched up his nose in confusion.

"Dean?"

"Bobby?"

"No, enough of your games Dean. I told you I had a lead. And I'll be damned if I let this damn drude go."

"Oh. Where's Bobby?"

"What?" John hissed.

"Is Bobby there?

"What the hell are you talking about, Dean?"

"Oh. Uhm. Sorry. I meant to call Bobby." There was an irritated growl at the other end of the line before a beep indicating that the line had been cut. Dean stood with his phone to his ear, listening to the silence. "Bye. I'll miss your dulcet tones."


End file.
